


The Snag

by AlphaKantSpell



Series: The Incomplete Guide to Drawf/Elf Relations [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, battle maiden, but manly flex my arms fluff, but with a lady, elf/dwarf relations, idk tags are weird, she scares the crap out of me but I'd date her, the tom-boy in me is cheering at my manly warrior lady
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaKantSpell/pseuds/AlphaKantSpell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny snag corrupted his plan; his pathetic soul decided now was the time to grow soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snag

In all honesty his first thought was “Holy Shit”. More accurately his first response to the foolish Grey Wardens who fell prey to his trap like flies baited to soiled meat was a rude laugh and call for attack. He had no reason to fear the dwarf and human duo, already contemplated what his next assassination might entail. Perhaps they would give him the end he sought. 

Then one Warden launched into motion – the dwarf, a tiny pebble of a warrior clad in tin armor. She toppled a man twice her size in a single blow and bashed in the assassin’s skull before he had the chance to curse; so Zevran did for him. Loudly. To his supreme horror, like a lamb realizing the intent of its shepherd’s blade, the Warden charged him next. 

By either pure dumb luck or Maker’s mercy he woke in a slurry daze an eternity later with the Warden’s entire scouting party peering over him. Zevran felt sympathy pains for whatever texts mages scrutinized, it no fun being studied. 

And again, “Holy Shit”. There she was, the terrifying Warden who clobbered his men like a quinari. Zevran almost wanted to face a dragon instead, but the Warden was much a much more pleasing sight. Dwarves had an odd sort of beauty about them, like a cactus blossom. It was pretty if one took the time to notice, but quite dangerous to try. 

Ninette, she introduced herself as when she removed her helm. Grey Warden number two of Ferelden, though obvious leader of the merry band. Her features were carved from soft clay, curvy but thick at the cheeks and square nose. Pale gold ink painted her face in blocky jags like the pattern to a woven basket. The color matched her hard eyes, crystalline with flecks of brass and blue. Zevran was surprised to see her hair done up in intricate braid, crimson locks pampered by a life no warrior would know. It pointed a person of dignity and intellect (perhaps not much given her current status). He hoped that meant she wouldn’t be opposed to a proposition.

Scared gutless but hanging on to his wits enough to form a plan, Zevran put on his best mask and answered every question she asked. He mentioned a mutual benefit, she gained a trained killer and he constant protection. Zevran was under no illusions that the Crows would not seek his life for failing his hit. Surely this ferocious Warden would prove a worthy safety net. If worst came to worst she could slow down an attack and he could scramble away before any was the wiser. Perhaps not the best plan but Zevran was confident he could adapt when danger struck. He would use the Warden as she used him. 

No hard feelings, life was tough and stepping stones were plenty. 

A tiny snag corrupted his plan; his pathetic soul decided now was the time to grow soft. 

It was Ninette’s fault – he blamed her needling ways. She pried and into his life; asked into his “adventures” and depended on his skill to pick locks or spot traps. Zevran saw no reason in warning the headstrong warrior about traps if she just charged past them anyway. He didn’t care if there was a blood mage across the room when he was the one who dealt with spikes and fire loosed from said traps. 

And he was a fool all the same. Ninette just had to look his way, grinning under freckles of blood with a gratitude that humbled him each and every time. Frustrating as a a storm, this Warden. 

He was amazed on a daily basis by the strange woman, a beastly warrior who felled dawkspawn like gnats then turned to him or anyone else near by in shear wonder as she looked to the sky. Zevran understood she came from a world within a cavern but the Warden would gape at a cloud’s migration across the horizon like the Maker himself appeared before her. Alistair had to nudge her along at times, and though they walked she kept one eye to the sky at all times. His fingers itched to draw a blade, strike now while her back was to him and her defenses down. Ninette fought like an ox for her pint size – his only chance at felling her was at those moments. 

Zevran would move toward his prey then she would circle a glance back at him and gesture for him to join her. It was impossible, but somehow this mole-ish creature had clipped the Crow’s wings. 

“Look how fast those ones are moving!” Ninette exclaimed, almost bouncing in step as she pointed to a mass of gray clouds just before the horizon. Zevran squinted in the direction, Ninette oddly eager for his reaction. So new to the aboveground world around her, the Warden soaked up any information she could find. He humored her. 

“Running like a cheating man from his wife, yes. Must be quite windy up there.” Ninette grinned up at him in a way that made Zevran feel far too smart for his own good. She would be the end of him, if not already. “Those thunderheads look quite ferocious. We may have rain this afternoon.” 

“Thunderheads?” Ninette quoted like a magpie. She was never this relaxed around the others. By Wynne she was hard of character, by Sten an immovable warrior, and to Alistair a stern if helpful sibling. Harried travelers seeking aid found a hero and those who refused to give information she wanted turned to whimpering terror with but a look. 

Only with Zevran was she honest in reactions. Sometimes he’d watch her from across the campfire and wonder why – why him? It wasn’t out of self deprecation – it made no sense. He’d been hired to kill her and exaggerated the truth on a regular basis.   
It was all he could do to chuckle for her now. 

“Yes, the big grey ones about to eat those cheating husband clouds. Those are thunderheads, big storm clouds that breathe lightning.”

The Warden scrunched up her face in thought then returned with, “Like Morrigan’s spells?” 

“Like that, yes, but bigger and far more powerful. It growls like a pack of giant mabari and lights the sky in a brilliant flash!”

“That’s lightening?” Ninette demanded, cheeks gone pale. Zevran floundered to find an explanation to her sudden fear. Ninette faced ogres in single combat but thunder clouds frightened her? 

“Until I came above ground, I didn’t know what rain was,” she started to explain, voice hushed like she worried the clouds might hear. Zevran quieted himself, following at the slower pace Ninette set. It was a rare occasion when the Warden spoke of herself.

“At home, when water drips from above it means there will be a collapsed tunnel, soon. During the battle at Ostagar, it rained so heavy I thought the sky would fall on me. Alistair had to explain over and over what rain was so I would focus on the battle and not it.” She laughed now, but it was a pitiable sound. “Each time he did, he explained it a little differently so I ended up more confused and gave up being frightened to fight the Darkspawn.” 

“It is difficult to imagine you frightened, mi señora,” Her current temperament notwithstanding. Ninette laughed hard at that and a knot loosened in Zevran’s gut. He’d caused that reaction from her, not the sky and certainly not Alistair. It gave him enough of a shot of pride, he forgot for a moment that he was sent to Ferelden to kill her. 

“You are a hopeless flirt, rogue.” 

“Perhaps not so much hopeless as handsome.” 

“I’ll give you that,” Ninitte giggled and Zevran took a moment to catalogue the sound. Strange to hear such a fearsome woman make the noise. He grinned at her and the warrior managed to compose herself. 

“As the battle progressed I focused less and less on the rain and more on the Darkspawn that were butchering our army. Then the sky lit up; boomed like an explosion had gone off and great cracks tore the sky. It was like every legend I have heard of, the sky opening to swallow an untethered dwarf whole.”

Her shoulders jerked with an uncontrollable shake like a spider had bitten the back of her neck. Zevran listened close now, captivated by the stories of a society that existed entirely underground. 

“When we go Above, we lose the blessing of our ancestors,” she explained to him. “We become. . . Castless, cut off from our heritage and the protection that comes with it. Venturing Above is a worse fate than those who wander the streets without a cast but are still connected to the Earth. If I hadn’t already lost everything before finding the Wardens, I might not have gone with them. At the time, I suppose I was too exhausted and frightened by everything else to worry about the sky.”

Zevran was curious about that story but decided it would be better for later. In general, the Warden did not offer pieces of her own information. She’d sit with the other members of their group and tirelessly listen to their old wounds or current complaints but she herself was not the soap-box type. No, Ninette preferred to bash in skulls with her shield opposed to conversing. Another thrill went through Zevran when he realized not even Alistair had gotten so much private information from the Warden. 

“You seem to like the sky now,” he prompted when she grew quiet again. 

“It changes a lot,” Ninette said. “Everything in this world changes. Alistair told me about the . . .seasons? When leaves fall and water freezes as it rains.” She said it like she didn’t believe it. “Back home, more than a thousand years can go by before a section of a wall is changed by dripping water. I realize now, our way of life is similar. It takes years, maybe decades to agree to a political statement. Even a simple party may take half the year to prepare for. Life Above leaves me a bit winded.” 

“Oh, we still have places that change very little,” Zevran encouraged. “At my home, Antiva, we have only two seasons – wet and dry. Our springs are warm, our summers hot, the fall and winter like a cold morning in this land, Ferelden.” 

Zevran grinned when he thought of his homeland, of sinking his feet into the fine sand of a riverbed or the rolling hills painted in wheat. Antiva was so much more beautiful than Ferelden and Zevran wanted to show Ninette that not everything ‘Above’ as she said, was so bleak. 

“I must admit, I had trouble my first time in Ferelden.” Ninette looked doubtful. “It is true! In Antiva, time is not so important. The weather is even and kind most all year so we have little need to be as stingy with our time as these Fereldens are.”

“They are, aren’t they,” Ninette chortled. It was a nice deep sound that Zevran doubted female elves were capable of making. It was foreign but not unwelcome. Unique. Very Dwarfish. “I was ten minutes late to a lesson Wynne was giving me on Ferelden history and she was mad as a Hissing Bat!” 

Zevran had never heard of a hissing bat before but he could imagine it well. He laughed along with the warrior. “When this war is over, you must come with me to Antiva and see what civilized society is.”

Ninette watched him and Zevran paused. He had never been the planning type; had no use for it when his life was a tool to be used. If he had any goals, sharing them with another was certainly not something he did. He enjoyed company but forming long lasting bonds was not something in his vocabulary, let alone personality. It was not often that Zevran felt foolish but the Warden had a knack coaxing it out of him. From the first moment he met her while charging an ambush to this moment, talking about clouds and time. To his great surprise, Ninette’s smile was soft and warm, fresh milk ready to be added to a dessert. All at once, Zevran didn’t care that he had a death sentence on his head, or that the world was ending, and that he’d betrayed the last woman who cared for him. Seeing her smile, all Zevran wanted was to learn how to repeat the act. 

“I would like that,” she said. “After the war, our first stop is Antiva.” 

After that, Zevran walked with more purpose. He was eager to finish the war as quick as they could and not necessarily to save lives. The only one he was interested in now was that of a woman who he was originally sent to kill.


End file.
